


God Break Down The Door

by justlikeyouimagined



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: #vampirehannibalfest, Anal Sex, Biting, Blood, Blood Drinking, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemas, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Power Bottom, Rough Sex, Vampire Sex, Vampires, Whump, vampirehannibalfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 17:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16412966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeyouimagined/pseuds/justlikeyouimagined
Summary: Will has been spending more time with Hannibal, and that should feel good. Tonight, however, something feels wrong.My contribution forgleamingandwholeanddeadly'sVampire Hannibal Fest.Note: The consent here is extremely dubious, with passing reference to non-con scenes of violence.





	God Break Down The Door

**Author's Note:**

> I don't often buy into a lot of the typical vampire themes (no reflection, cannot eat food, killed by wooden stakes, etc), so this is pretty non-traditional in that sense. Vampires still drink blood though. I'm on board for that one.
> 
> Title comes from a Nine Inch Nails song of the same name. It wasn't planned, but the lyrics suit it particularly well. [Watch/Listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=2&v=eeJ_DzRJUI4)

There’s a tremor in Will’s hands that he notices only when the ice in his drink clinks loudly against the crystal tumbler. Reflecting, he realizes that his heartbeat is a little too quick, his muscles too on edge for a quiet evening in with Hannibal.

Sitting across from each other, they nurse their drinks, though he thinks for different reasons. He’s never seen Hannibal slip from alcohol; his is meant to be savored. On the other hand, his own throat feels raw, like he’s been screaming. He can't place why; he presumes the blame must be on another night terror that his mind is protecting itself from. So he sips gingerly at his bourbon and watches Hannibal do the same. His foot taps a rapid pace against the thick rug, an unconscious tick he’s noticed has gotten away from him recently.

“You seem more agitated than usual, Will. What’s on your mind?”

His gaze works over Hannibal, over his casual lean, his legs comfortably crossed, his shoulders straight and resting gently against the back of the chair. The light of the fireplace reveals a flickering curiosity playing about his eyes. The delicate creases belie a vague playfulness that feels ill-suited for the circumstance.

“I can’t say I’ve got much of anything on my mind, Doctor. Maybe it’s the absence that’s agitating.”

“You’ve said that when you wade in the streams, your mind flows free. Are you suspicious of it doing the same when in the familiar space of your partner?”

Wills eyes shoot up at this, searching Hannibal’s mask for any giveaway twitch. As usual, there is nothing. 

“Partner might be a.. bit presumptuous.”

“Would it?”

“Giving in to some baser instincts on occasion does not a relationship make,” Will scoffs, then pulls a full gulp from his glass. He controls the wince that he wants to make in response to the burn against his raw throat.

“You haven’t left my home in over two weeks, Will.”

It feels suddenly important to Will that he be anywhere other than sitting across from Hannibal, so he pulls himself up and wanders idly in the space of the room not occupied by him. Though he won’t deny his memories of Hannibal’s touch are all… pleasant (at the  _ very _ least), he can’t help but notice the way his pulse picks up whenever he gets within arms reach of the man. It doesn’t feel like arousal, he doesn’t think. It confuses him, and so he keeps his distance. Still, he also doesn't think too hard about the fact that Alana's stopped asking him when he'll be coming back for his dogs. That, too, pangs at something deeply unsettling. 

“Doctor - Hannibal. I won’t insult you by listing the reasons why this cannot keep happening.”

“Then why do you stay?” 

Will glaces over his shoulder as he absently thumbs across the bookshelf near the back of the space. He sees Hannibal imitate concern, then confusion with a slight tilt of his head and uptick of his eyebrows.

“I…” he begins, then stops himself to rub furiously at his eyes. He’s so damn tired. “I don’t know if I can leave.”

The admission feels more truthful than he’d expected.

At this, Hannibal also stands, resting his nearly-full tumbler on the side table. He reduces the space between them with four steps, but stops just short of getting within Will’s reach. A play at respectful distance. An attempt to avoid unwanted intimidation.

“Will, you can leave here whenever you'd like.” 

Hannibal, very slowly, steps closer to Will, extends his arm and brushes a curl away from his face. The touch confuses his nervous system, at once tugging hard at the beginning of arousal in his gut while simultaneously making him shudder. There’s something wrong here, but it’s buried so far in Will’s subconscious that he can’t trust it to be real. He needs more information. To do that, he needs to stay. With that in mind, he nods.

“I know. I don’t - I don’t want to. Not yet.” He sighs, closes his eyes in a play at submission. When he feels Hannibal’s heavy palm rest on the curve between his neck and shoulder, the desirous pull of submitting for real tugs at him.  _ Let go _ , it commands,  _ give him what you’ve promised. _

He lets his breath leave his body completely when Hannibal’s hand on his neck shifts, just enough to wrap around its base, the pressure just tighter than comforting. He wants to lean back, expose himself more to Hannibal’s touch, but something reverberating in his skull stops him.

“Will, you are welcome here as long as you’d like. Longer, if I had my say.” He speaks the words to Will’s mouth, lets his lower lip pull in against the edges of his top teeth. The room fizzles with anticipation, with unrelinquished consent.

Will keeps his eyes on Hannibal’s for a long while, searching there for some tell that might reveal motivations more complicated than sex. There’s a prowler in the back of Hannibal’s eyes, but he is so well-caged behind his orchestrated grace that Will isn’t even sure he’s picking up on the right undercurrent. There’s something. That’s not to be denied. The shake in his hands is back: his body knows what his mind is unwilling to uncover. 

_ Come here. _

It is an auditory hallucination so perfectly designed that Will jerks in alarm when Hannibal’s lips don’t move in time with the words that he hears. The experience is unnerving, but there is no denying the command: Will takes two short steps until he is pressed up against Hannibal, their chests rising and falling in tandem.

“The way you undo me, Will. And you are not even aware of it,” Hannibal breathes, then brings his mouth to Will’s jaw, rubbing the stubble across his lips. 

For his own part, Will cannot seem to catch his breath. The arousal sparking between them is undeniable. Despite his better intentions earlier in the evening, tonight will end just the same as all the others that he’s spent here. There is some comfort in letting go, he assures himself, and embraces the rapid beating of his heart against his rib cage as evidence of anticipation. Nothing more.

In Will’s mind’s eye, there is a  _ flash _ of blood, of sharp, pulling pain - just for a second - and then it is gone. His cock is half hard, and he leans in to push it against Hannibal’s own.

“You’ll come up with me then, Will?” Hannibal asks, always the gentleman. There is a heat about them that feels ferocious. Will thinks if given the option, he might rejoice in having Hannibal over the sofa, against the wall, ruining the thick pile of the carpet when they make each other erupt from the tension. Of course he’ll come up with him.

Will nods, peels himself away from Hannibal's firm body and moves towards his half-full glass. Despite the persistent shake of his fingers, he cannot deny that tonight, he feels indulgent: to pleasure, to sensation more generally. He finishes the bourbon off in one massive swig. He thinks he catches Hannibal’s eyebrows lift slightly in surprise, but the fiery pain ripping down his throat is too much of a distraction to focus outward. 

Hannibal leaves his own glass unemptied, and turns, expecting Will to follow him out of the study, up the stairs. 

At first view, Hannibal’s bedroom is a meticulous study in comfort, though Will is pulled by some remnant of a memory that is incongruent with the luxurious tableau. It makes him stop short of the door, his eyes sweeping the space for the possible source of mental alarm. Everything looks exactly as it should be. Carefully curated. Decadent. A feeling like dread whips up his spine, but it is gone just as soon as he notices it. 

“Hannibal, I -” Will stops, still uncomfortable verbalizing his needs with the doctor. He swallows, finds his confidence, then continues, “I want to take you, this time.”

Hannibal can see Will’s face in the reflection of the mirror he stands by while he removes his lapels. That he doesn't turn to make eye contact directly is a small mercy. Hannibal hums in consideration, though Will is relieved to see a hint of a smile play against his lips while he undresses in the dim light. He moves on to the buttons of his shirt, then turns to return to the entryway where Will still stands, hands shoved in his pockets to hide their tremble.

“I’m surprised this is the first time you’ve brought it up,” he says, bringing his hand to trace the edge of Will’s chin, jaw, down his neck. He begins on Will’s shirt, continuing, “A shower first, perhaps? I’d appreciate your participation.” 

The invitation catches Will’s breath in his lungs; for a second, he thinks his heart has shuddered in greedy expectation. In response, he leans in to press his lips fervently against Hannibal’s own. 

In the adjoining bathroom, the water runs in hot torrents over the smooth tiles, billowing mist into the rest of the space to obscure their reflections in the mirror. They’re both naked now, having made short work of their remaining pieces as they moved as one into the next room. 

The tickle of  _ wrongness _ has calmed itself in Will’s hindbrain, pressed down by the certainty by which Hannibal’s hands rub against his chest, drag nails along his back, squeeze the subtle softness of his inner thighs. 

Hannibal steps into the shower first, then pulls Will in to join him. They are entwined before the water has a chance to seep between their chests, more a fused thing than two autonomous bodies. Will thinks about losing himself in Hannibal, groans loudly into the rush of the water. 

For minutes, they confuse themselves in each other’s limbs. The homunculus of Will’s sensory cortex becomes so twisted and jumbled that Hannibal’s tongue on his collarbone shoots its response to weaken his knees; a tender bite against his nipple serves instead to send a twitch to his cock.

“You are spectacular,” Hannibal speaks into his chest. Will is lost in the tactile heat. 

But then, a loving nip on his pectoral grows sharp, pulling the air into Will’s lungs with a gasp. He lurches back, just a fraction before Hannibal’s firm grip on him prevents any further separation. He sees the impression of canines against his smooth chest, hisses when blood runs pink and thin as it mingles with the river of water.

This. _This_ is something. The blood rushes past his ears, drowning out the white noise of the water, making it so all he knows is the cacophony of his mind.  _ Get out, get out, get out,  _ it screams, then whimpers, more meekly. Tired. 

“You bring me on you, Will. The surprise that I might hurt you, after all this time.” Hannibal’s voice is thick, intoxicated. He reaches down to grab Will’s hand, presses it tightly around his thick cock. Exhales. Tilts his head back, releases a smile. 

In this second, he forgets about the pain, feels only a quiet pride that he might unmoor Hannibal enough to slip his control.  _ He would devour you _ , his mind says, but it feels more like a promise than a threat.

Hannibal peels himself away from Will long enough to retrieve a washcloth, soap, a narrow stainless steel probe head. He hands the first two to Will, then replaces the secondary shower head with the enema tip. He tests the connection and pressure, then leaves it hooked to the wall.

“You’ll clean me now?” he says as though it is a question, both knowing it is a demand.

To care for Hannibal is a gift that shuts down any thoughts threatening to overwhelm Will’s busy mind. He focuses on his task, rubs suds over Hannibal’s firm skin until it smells brightly of yuzu and ginger. It feels thicker than his own, like the hide of a predatory animal, a smooth and invulnerable armor. He cannot resist pressing his lips to Hannibal’s neck, sucking to feel the warmth from the shower spray pull away from his skin.

When Hannibal passes him the shampoo, he delights in his memories of running his fingers through the wet locks, imagines the way his nails must send a tingle over his scalp, down Hannibal’s neck. He works the lather through his hair, and moves behind Hannibal to press himself against his ass and breathe in the aroma: dewy forest mornings, black pines, something citrus. The scents mix with the light lingering essence of Hannibal’s own skin: Will cannot imagine ever forgetting the bouquet. 

When they are both clean, Will wraps himself around the whole of Hannibal’s torso, more accepting of the urge inside him to submit. The intimacy is allowed for a moment, but then Hannibal leans back to press a chaste kiss onto his wet curls atop his head, and turns himself in his arms.

“The way you feel against me,” he growls, and grinds their cocks together before pulling away.

The shower turns off, and Hannibal pulls a towel out to run over Will's smooth, wet skin. A shiver runs through him in response to the tender way his waist is then wrapped in the towel, Hannibal careful not to snag his now heavy cock.

Hannibal pays no attention to the cool air flooding into the space. Dripping, he moves towards the long built-in shower bench and gets himself onto it before leaning his head forward and down into the wall. Like this, his ass is pushed up and out, spread wide before Will, shamelessly. Will catches himself staring, before he moves hastily to take the metal hose and nozzle. Something internal reminds him -  _ commands _ him - not to make Hannibal wait.

He splays the fingers of one hand against Hannibal's lower back, and cannot resist rubbing his thumb down, down, until it teases against the tight pucker there. He pushes against it, a fleeting vision of  _ shoving violently _ , tearing into the man below. The thought chokes him with a thick, suffocating guilt; he has to press his eyes closed to see himself through it. To his relief, he only keeps his thumb pressed firm, doesn't breach. 

He pushes the lever just enough to start a timid trickle out of the head's small holes. Will is dizzy with arousal already, would fuck into Hannibal now - he is at the perfect height - damn the mess. Boiling under his skin is this need to take,  _ to rip _ , to somehow  _ tear _ into the man in front of him. It feels vengeful. It worries him with its ferocity.

The nozzle itself is small and pushes in with little resistance. He slowly pushes up on the lever to increase the meager flow. Then, he waits, returning his other hand to rub circles on Hannibal's back. 

It feels like a fantastically long time for someone so wrapped up in the visual of his predator, bent in half before him, cock peeking between the part of his legs, bowels slowly filling with the warm spray. For his part, Hannibal remains largely still. Only his small shifts to reposition his knees or the way he tilts his hips up further betray the growing fullness that presses into him. Finally, he reaches up with one hand to take the nozzle from Will, then pushes down on the lever to stop the inflow. 

When the hose is out of the way, there is no stopping Will from pushing his body into Hannibal's backside. Vaguely, he knows this must be uncomfortable, but he doesn't resist the urge to crowd Hannibal, rut his toweled cock over his full hole. The noises that escape Will sound carnal, barely restrained. There it is again, that urging to fight, followed immediately by a wave of nauseating guilt for so much as thinking harm upon the man below him.

Hannibal seems largely unphased by Will's slipping inhibitions, only manages a soft distracted laugh when Will pushes hard enough onto his ass for him to have to catch himself against the wall lest he smash his face into it.  _ He has always been patient with me _ , Will thinks, the thought something just offside of fondness.

After a time, Hannibal rests his hand firmly on Will's hip to still him, then pushes back before speaking, “I'll finish this. You will wait for me on the bed.”

Reluctantly, Will moves himself away, slipping the dampened towel into the laundry basket as he departs. Without Hannibal close, the room is frigid, and his skin prickles up uncomfortably for his absence. Still, he makes no move to cover himself, instead laying dutifully on his back against the soft sheets. 

It's longer than he expects when Hannibal finally emerges, still naked but dry. Clean. Immediately, he crawls up and over Will, presses his length and ruts hard against the edge of his thigh. He is softer than when Will left him, but both quickly work back to an uncomfortable hardness. The room is silent but for the increasingly urgent breaths exchanged between the two, lips breaking just enough to steal air. 

Though it was his own request, he feels unable to initiate anything. As Hannibal sucks fiercely at Will's nipple, he realizes that he is waiting for permission. His words comes out shaky, “Hannibal, can I? Will you still let me fuck you?”

There is a warm pleasure that licks at Hannibal's features above him for hearing Will so uncertain. His teeth flash in a quick smile. 

“I would have you in me every way. I wish I could devour you completely.”

Will shivers with the cold surge of electricity the words elicit, feels himself short circuit for a moment and stills. He is searching Hannibal's face for  _ something,  _ though he finds only mirth and amusement and bright eyed wanting. 

Hannibal leans over for the lube, rubs it too roughly over Will's cock. Then he is lined up, pushing down, relentless, until he bottoms out. It must sting, given the way it grips tantalizingly along Will's length, but he sees only satisfaction wash along Hannibal's features. His back curves, head falls; he immediately begins to grind himself on Will. 

Will reaches up and claws at Hannibal's torso, pulling thin red scratches from under the silver hair. His hands grip against his thighs, and he revels in the sinewy shifting of muscle underneath the skin as Hannibal relentlessly rides him. He would buck up, meet push for push, if it would do any good. But the way Hannibal takes what he needs, uses him, only leaves him able to squirm underneath.

Hannibal directs Will's hand to wrap around his cock, squeezes with the desired pressure, then their fists move together to jerk him off. When it isn’t enough, Hannibal grunts as he throws Will’s hand off of him, working himself with just the right twist of his wrist. Will is left whining below him, and he thrashes his head to the side when the sparking pressure in his gut builds.

He knows, of course: He doesn’t get to come first. He is furiously thinking of anything else to distract himself from the way Hannibal bounces roughly on his cock, or the pleasure pain of his strong hand gripped hard behind him on his spread thigh.  


There’s something else he knows, too, under it all. It’s a panic that rises with the thrill, some deep buried warning that is screaming, quietly, under the distraction of the rough grind on his cock.

But then Hannibal’s hand behind him shifts, and his fingers are urgently massaging at his balls and it is over for him. He sobs as he comes, squeezes his eyelids tight. Because it feels so fucking good; because the punishment is about to feel so goddamn bad.

Hannibal growls as the rush fills him, eyes narrow, but doesn’t slow his pace. He rides Will through the aftershocks, past the overwhelming sensitivity that follows. Hannibal shifts his position, hands firm against Will’s chest, to better rub himself against Will’s cockhead. After a few moments, it is everything Will can do to stop himself from shoving Hannibal off him. The way he is writhing under him brings out Hannibal’s wicked, satisfied grin, and he presses down harder against Will’s chest.

“You are abysmally useless,” he pants, leaning down to suck at Will’s earlobe. “You cannot follow our simplest rule.”

The words reverberate in his mind, the shock of it causing his eyes to flash open. 

“I’m - fuck, I’m sorry! Please, just - stop!” he whimpers, then wiggles his hands to rest against Hannibal’s chest, though he knows better than to try to move him off. His face is crumpled with overstimulation; he wishes he would grow soft enough so that Hannibal couldn’t keep riding him through it. 

“Who are you to demand anything of me?” he whispers, and feels the sharp prick of teeth pressing through the sensitive flesh behind his ear. “All you had to do was stay hard for me, Will, and you won’t even manage that.”

This isn’t like him. This isn't the Hannibal Will knows. The harsh words burn into him like a brand. He is physically, mentally pulled tight; he doesn’t understand what’s just happened.

“Hannibal - what?” He pushes gently against him, enough to bring them eye to eye. The swipe of red along Hannibal’s lips is jarring; he didn’t realize he had bit him again in earnest. There are too many sensations threatening to overtake him. “What the fuck? What’s going on?”

Will has finally - mercifully - gone soft enough that Hannibal can’t continue riding him. He tries, without success, to shove Will’s now meager erection into his hole, then huffs in disgust. 

“I am so lost in you, Will,” he breathes, hand coming down hard against Will's face, his fingers quick to soothe the surprising ache. “A simple toy that cannot even fulfill a brutally simple role. And yet, you can set me adrift.”

“Hannibal, please…” Will is confused, all previous pangs at violence rinsed clean out of him. He should want to fight - knows the wickedness of Hannibal’s words, the sting of his palm on his face, should spur his hands to fists.  _ Why can’t he fight? Why doesn’t he want to? _

Hannibal’s hand moves gently now, brushing through his curls. Though the touch is soft, he can still feel the resentment, a greedy disappointment emanating from deep under the placid surface. Will searches Hannibal’s face for something to help him understand.

“I’m sorry, I.. I don’t know what I -” When Hannibal smirks, a patient, pitying smirk, he desperately adds: “Hannibal, I want to be good for you.”

Hannibal hums at this, true pleasure flashing across his features. He rubs his hard cock over Will’s abdomen. “I know, Will. I do. And you will be, eventually. It’s only that I sometimes wish you didn’t make this so hard on yourself.” 

Will doesn’t dare move. He watches the man above him carefully for any tell of what he’s thinking. He feels lost - how had things gone so sideways so quickly? “What can I - Hannibal, are we okay? I know I shouldn’t have. But what you said - I don’t think I get…”

Hannibal leans his head down so that their foreheads touch. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply of the sweat and fear and uncertainty blossoming off of Will. He doesn’t answer, but instead shifts his head so he can lick over Will’s lips. Despite the confusion, he parts his mouth to allow entrance. They stay locked like this for a time, Hannibal’s hands roaming over Will’s body, taking inventory of every muscle, every scar. By degrees, Will relaxes under him.  


Hannibal’s mouth is insistent at his neck, sucking bruises that he will have to cover in layers and shadows. Will is gasping, his body still too sensitive from his climax. Then, instead of tongue and lips, he feels teeth sharp and needy on his neck. He cannot help the way he jolts back from the sting of the shallow bite.

“Jesus, Hannibal. Just - be careful, yeah?” he breathes, moving his one hand over the wound, brows furrowing when he pulls it back to see red covering his fingers. 

“Hm, darling boy.” The words are no apology, but Will melts back anyway. He returns a tentative kiss, and feels the slide of blood over his teeth.

Hannibal sighs into his mouth, parts from him just enough to speak, “Sometimes I wish I could let you see more clearly. But the way your fear makes you tremble - I’m afraid I would miss it too much.”

Will pushes back on Hannibal in earnest now and tries to sit up, though only manages to squirm under the firm grip Hannibal has on his shoulders. “Hannibal - you’re.. You’re not making any sense. What are you -”

He is cut short when Hannibal lunges, sinking his teeth deep into the tender flesh of his already-bruising neck. The pain of it is extraordinary: first like glass shards, plunged unforgivingly into the tissue, then a throbbing pull as Hannibal starts to fiercely suck against the wound.

There is something else, a cold poison that seems to uncurl its ribbons from the bite, weaving through his veins on its way to the pump house, then spewing out to overwhelm his body. His heart stops - he’s sure of it - for at least a few seconds. But it feels like hours; he is utterly paralyzed below this gluttonous monster, still rutting impatiently in the bend between his torso and thigh. 

The noises Hannibal makes lodged into the curve of his neck are obscene, abandoned in a way that feels entirely foreign for his knowledge of the composed doctor. There is pain, sure. Indescribable, immaculate pain. But:  _ This is also a gift _ , he thinks, and knows it as surely as he knows his name. He lays with it, unable to do anything else.

Then, for an instant, as his heart restarts its rabbiting beat, he is ablaze in flashes of remembered violence, of the need to escape, to fight, to deny the thing that he knows will be his undoing. Where once he was frozen, he manages to curl his hands into fists and he punches up against Hannibal’s chest as hard as he can. The blow manages to separate the two of them, and Will scrambles to get loose from underneath Hannibal's weight.

Will hears a growl, low, almost like a purr, and then Hannibal releases him completely. He pushes himself to the opposite side of the bed, eyes wide, adrenaline surging. Hannibal barely reacts, just watches Will as he slips off the bed. His lips are stained dark red; he's wiped the mess from his chin so that it is smeared wide, across his cheek.

He regards Will across the six feet of mattress. “I won't deny that I've been thinking about how sweet you taste every moment since I last had you. You give me a focus of mind that lasts for days.” Hannibal eyes have closed halfway, remembering past evenings.

“Jesus, Hannibal! What the fuck is going on?” Will is standing now, too, his weight shifting nervously from left foot to right and back again. His hand is pressed firmly over the bite. There is a familiarity to this feeling, though it is a vague etching behind his eyes rather than a fully realized deja vu. His hand comes back covered, the pulse at his neck letting him know the blood is still seeping.

Hannibal moves slowly, not so as to avoid startling him, but for the pure pleasure of it. His back straightens, a feline stretch of vertebrae. Will is locked in place, though for every step he closes between them, he can feel the the electricity in his veins burning hotter.

“I wondered how many times I could do this. Before I became ineffective at erasing it completely.” Hannibal pauses. He is feet away, then in a heartbeat he is only inches. Will wonders if he’s been drugged. Time isn’t cooperating the way it should. Nothing is making sense. “Tonight, the way you sat uncomfortable with yourself in the study. It is such a delicious thing, to watch your body catch up before your mind.”

The uncertainty is painted across Will’s features, but still he does not move. He shivers as Hannibal’s fingers brush painfully against the bite, again when Hannibal brings their stained tips to his lips and sucks, wanton. He realizes he is shaking.

“It’s better now if you give in, Will,” he continues, then wraps a firm arm to ensnare him as he brings his lips back to the welling source. He speaks quietly, though the words sound like thunder near his ear, “You always do, eventually. I dare say you’ve learned to enjoy yourself for me.”

There is a whisper again, something extra-aural, something commanding:  _ Arms down, head back, let go.  _ The way his body obeys the silent commands feels dissociative. 

Hannibal is on him again, before Will can buck against the command. His legs suddenly feel weak. He leans more into Hannibal's firm body, relying on him to stay upright. The pain swims across his body, meeting resistance at every joint.  _ Let go,  _ the air about him screams. And after some hesitation, he does. Eyes closed, he lets himself float into the agony of it all.

With submission come the memories. The fount for the agitation that has been clawing behind the veil all night, the guilt-ridden need for violence against a man who had - to his conscious mind, at least - only ever treated him kindly. His body floods with panic.  


Don’t.

Die.

This has happened before.

Of course, this has happened so many times before.

Reality comes to Will as a heavy blow, tears a moan from his throat, past the fierce pull of his blood as it is sucked lustfully across Hannibal’s tongue. He struggles violently, thrashing against Hannibal, who for his part barely works to hold him steady. An utterly useless idea, escape.

Through the pain, he remembers. They have been here, in this room, night after night. These are the memories that he’s recalled before, down in the study or earlier in the shower. The frenzied heat of evenings spent sweaty and demanding against a man so otherworldly that even in its most lucid, it had felt like a dream. These memories, he tells himself, are the ones that flood to his cock, make him fill out below.  _ In spite _ , he clarifies to himself,  _ in spite  _ of Hannibal’s mouth ravaging his throat.

But he knows. He knows. Littered between those fever-hot evenings, there are the nights that have suddenly become unlocked. Against the wall, arms pinned between him with one hand, the feel of teeth ripping at his shoulder, the thick slide of Hannibal’s cock still working into him. In the shower -  _ they had just been in the damned shower -  _ roles reversed, him on all fours on the bench, Hannibal fucking his tongue into his ass. Then the stab of teeth - no, fangs - on his cheek, held down and made to writhe against his locked jaws. Outside, in the garden. In the kitchen. In the motherfucking car. 

This has happened before. Again and again and again.  


His words are dull, useless weapons, he knows. He uses them anyway, knows his body for all its terror will still never push hard enough against his captor to pull free. He is caught. He has been lured. Submitted. He pants, “One time, you’re going to kill me.”

He feels the curve of Hannibal’s lips against his neck, his teeth dislodging from muscle. “Yes, I suppose I might.”

“Why bother hiding it then? When you’ve already decided my fate?”

Hannibal’s mouth is slippery against Will’s heated skin. He trails kisses along his collarbone, soft and incongruent with the previous violence. The shift leaves Will lightheaded.

“I said might. I prefer to leave my options open.” 

Will is torn between extremes, held immobile against opposing options. Perhaps it’s the blood loss, but there is serenity in the dizziness, if he were to embrace it. For a moment, he wishes he knew how to make himself.

_ Let go. _

Will tilts his head to nudge some distance from the intoxication that Hannibal’s lips spread across his skin. “You’d stop this then? You’d let me leave?” 

“You misunderstand me, Will. I admit that I erase these moments. For security. Perhaps for my own enjoyment. It is like rewatching a favorite film, only this one shape shifts with each reveal. But understand this: I may work hard to blind you, but I do not make you stay.”

Hannibal’s gaze locks against Will. “You choose this on your own.”

_ Give in. _

There is thunder trapped inside his ribs; Will is certain they will crack if the energy builds up in him any further. His own eyes dance wildly between Hannibal’s steady stare, then skip down once, twice, to his lips. He's decided before, he realizes. He decides every fucking time. The realization makes him lunge at the monster, demanding a love that ends in bruises and carnage.

“You asshole,” he breathes, mouth smashed against Hannibal’s sharp teeth. “I’m just a toy to you. Wind me up, watch me go.”

Hannibal’s laughter is low as they tumble as one once more on to the bed. “Of course, Will. An abysmally useless toy. A most remarkable, precious toy. My toy.”

Will’s renewed erection is painful, pressed between the tight clamp of their torsos. He uses more force than necessary to bend Hannibal up, for he is a willing partner. His cum leaks lazily from Hannibal’s ass as he lines himself up, then pushes in, relentless. This play at dominance only causes Hannibal to laugh louder now, head back, cock rigid.

The tempo is set to expel demons, calm objections, satisfy some frenzied piece of Will that knows only to respond to violence with the same. As he thrusts, he wraps both hands tight against Hannibal’s neck, a buzzing awareness that no matter how much he squeezes, it’ll make no difference. So he leans into it, bracing himself against Hannibal’s neck, pushing down hard as he sinks into Hannibal again and again and again. 

Hannibal doesn’t go red, doesn’t lose consciousness, though Will knows he would if their roles were reversed. Instead, he comes hard, covering their chests with thick ropes of the stuff. Will hates himself for it, but the sight of it sets an ache in his chest. There is pleasure in good behaviour. He feels the pride of his actions wash over him. 

Several minutes later, he comes again, weakly, trembling, still clutching hard to the solid girth of Hannibal’s neck. Will rolls off. His chest is heaving with the effort of pulling each breath down and out of his raw throat. 

A sense of betrayal for the neediness of his own body wells up in him, though he immediately redirects it: “You didn’t let me choose.”

“You’re wrong, Will. You choose every time. Just now, you chose. Last time, you chose. It took you longer, but from the beginning you always choose this.”

“This is little more than coercion.”

“Persuasion.”

Will huffs at the correction, though he refuses to admit the distinction feels appropriate. His hand absently finds the torn mess of his neck. The brightness of the sensation has dulled. He is surprised to feel how much damage has been done compared against the tolerance of the ache.

“You do something - to heal me,” he says. He knows it must be true in order for the destruction of his body not to have betrayed what has been repeatedly wiped from his mind.

Hannibal doesn’t answer, though he shifts to observe the wound directly. The mark is made more gruesome for the blood spread around it, though it is sizeable enough that it will take the night to stitch up.

“Come,” he says, and lifts himself from the bed, offering his hand to Will. “We’ll clean you. Then, you’ll eat.”

Will eyes him, cautious for a moment, before accepting his hand. Still, he doesn’t let Hannibal lead the way to the bathroom. He feels unsteady as he moves; hopes it doesn’t reflect in any obvious lack of coordination. 

When the water is hot again, Will pauses before stepping in. “I - I’d prefer to be alone.”

Hannibal’s head tilts slightly in acceptance. “Of course. I’ll leave clothes on the bed.” His eyes linger momentarily on the smears of drying brown-red along Will’s chest, and then he disappears once more into the bedroom. 

When Will returns downstairs, he find Hannibal finishing making coffee. “If you would, dessert is in the fridge. The places are set,” he says, motioning to the dining room with his head.

Will’s mind is swimming, he still isn’t clear on the details, but they are slipping back to him, lost novels sliding back into their reserved places on a shelf. Each one a horror, he is sure. He doesn’t notice that he’s moved towards the kitchen island, hand running along the length of a wooden spoon that lays discarded on the counter. He could snap it quickly, lunge over. He could steal it away, do it when he sleeps.

“You already tried that, last week.” Hannibal has the audacity to smirk as he passes Will his coffee. “I’m afraid that once again, I must inform you that it doesn’t work quite the same as in the stories.”

Will shakes his head, but takes the coffee and moves towards the fridge to remove the desserts. He hands one to Hannibal and they move together into the dining room.

“Could you bring them back, if I wanted you to?” he inquires about the memories that have been locked up in some shadowy recesses of his mind. It is unsettling, the way he didn’t realize the moments were missing in the first place. His typical eidetic memory littered with gaps of hours upon hours, spread across weeks.

Hannibal considers this as he tucks himself into his chair, placing his napkin smoothly over his lap. “I have never tried to do it en masse, but I suppose it could be possible, yes.”

Will looks over at him, absently touches the small bite mark on his chest through the cotton undershirt. “Would you?”

“I think that would depend on a great many things, Will. Please,” he pauses and motions with his fork, “eat.”

In front of him is a dense looking chocolate torte, a burnt umber cocoa crust nesting a mocha filling, with golden spun sugar scribbled across its top. Around it, a garland of edible flowers and flash-frozen berries. He cuts in with the side of his fork, lifts the piece to his mouth and surprises himself with the groan that escapes his mouth.

“Things will feel… enhanced, for a short time. I have wondered whether I do you a disservice taking those moments from you as well.”

“What would it take, for you to stop doing this to me?” Will asks, though - absurdly - he doesn’t feel the same push to fight Hannibal as he had before he’d tasted the sweets. His mouth is thick with flavor; it is like nothing he has remembered tasting before. Of course he wouldn’t remember.

Before Hannibal can answer, Will holds his hand out to stop him. “Have we already had this discussion before?” he asks, and looks disgusted by the idea. “How much of this keeps happening, Hannibal?”

“There seem always to be things that I cannot predict about you, Will. I daresay this is what keeps me interested. What keeps you alive.” He pauses to take a sip of his wine. “It would be… reckless of me to leave your memory unaffected. I’ve grown comfortable in the life that I have established here.”

“You think I would jeopardize that?”

“Would you?”

Will huffs and takes a long drink to stretch out his time. “I don’t know. This is beyond predatory. Beyond possessive.”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

“What if…” The idea at the tip of Will’s tongue makes him pause, leaves his words dangling in the air before him.

“If I had obtained your consent?”

“Yeah.” The confession is quiet, muffled by an oversized bite of torte shoved around the word. He feels ravenous.

Hannibal sets his cutlery down, and takes a long moment to study the man beside him. Will is shaken, of course, but there is no denying that this is the tamest he has been upon re-realizing what had been happening to him. The first night, Hannibal recalls with a degree of fondness, he’d had to restrain him to the thick iron posts of his guest bed, beat him heavily until the anger was replaced with a weary helplessness.

He is faced, tonight, with a version of Will that is seething with betrayal, indignant with having been manipulated. But it is tempered by something else there. Something that deep shame denies Will: an underlying willingness to give in.

“It would have been an unnecessary risk.” He decides, finally, then rests his napkin on the table.

“I don’t want my mind robbed from me again, Hannibal.” Will’s stare is sure, unwavering. Hannibal cannot help but notice the way his neck muscles twitch as he sets his jaw.

“Are you proposing a truce?” 

Will sighs, rubs his eyes hard with his palms. He sets his own fork down and pushes himself away from the table. “Fuck, I - I don’t know. I’m getting a drink.”

With the collected plates, Hannibal exits to the kitchen to clean up. When Will rejoins him, slumping heavy into the leather chair, he is holding two glasses.

“Can you not admit a part of you craves this?” Hannibal’s words are soft, his steps towards Will cautious though he accepts the proffered tumbler when it is offered.

“Should I trust any part of myself, now that I know you’ve played so unimpeded in my mind?”

Hannibal takes an appreciative sip, keeping the familiar distance between them. He looks down at Will, waiting for him to continue. Will sighs, takes too large a gulp, and rubs his hand over his eyes again. “The most absurd part of this is that I think I wanted you, before. I don’t even know when before was.”

“I believe you genuinely felt a fondness for me, yes. Once you started to find me interesting, perhaps.” Will lets out a tired laugh, and drinks more heavily from his glass. “The alcohol will have a stronger effect with you drained as you are.”

He stares at him for a moment, indignant, then tilts the rest of the glass back in one go. “Concerned that I won’t be able to enthusiastically consent?” he asks, voice thick with displeasure.

“I prefer it, at times.” Hannibal answers mildly, considering. He steps away from the leather chair and makes his way out of the kitchen. 

Will doesn’t follow. After a few moments, he hears the distinct tickle of notes pulled from the harpsichord. It is an enchanting sound, less familiar than the piano and more immediate, more demanding. He finds himself refilling his glass and wandering towards the sound. His steps verge on unsteady.

Will perches himself on the armrest of a nearby chair and watches. Hannibal is unguarded when he plays, wrapped in plucked notes playing out in endless alternate compositions. He is beautiful here. There is a haunting mastery with which Hannibal moves about his world, with a reverent joy to everyday experiences. It’s a bewitching thing, to peek upon such adoration for life.

When the music pauses, Will cannot help himself: “Will you kill me?” he asks.  


“Not tonight, if that is your concern.”

“You know it isn’t. You know what I’m asking.”

Hannibal shifts on the bench to regard him fully. He contains the flickering twitch of his cheek, the softening around his eyes as he looks upon Will. “Do you?”

Will’s heart, weak as it is, makes an effort of pumping his blood more fervently. He feels dizzy, a combination of blood loss and drink and vertigo for standing so near to a precipice.

“I can’t know. You won’t let me see.” His quiet response slips heavy past his lips.

“A compromise, perhaps,” Hannibal says at length. His fingers play about the keys before shutting the lid. “You may keep tonight’s memories and we can continue this discussion in the morning, when you’re less affected.”

“You mean drunk?” Will spits out.

“Among other things, yes.” 

Hannibal’s arm moves to touch about the edges of the clean wound, now considerably less raw looking than only an hour before. Despite himself, his eyes close at the sensation. Hannibal’s fingers slide down to follow the line of his clavicle. 

“You want me to stay,” Will whispers, allowing his head to lean back a fraction.

“Will, I always want you to stay. While I’d like your decision to be your own, if we are going to continue this tomorrow, I’m afraid staying tonight is no longer optional.”

“You’re going to lock me up.” It’s not a question. “Again.”

Hannibal’s lips dance against the skin of his cheekbone when he speaks. “Yes. And you’re going to let me. Again.”

He surges forward, pressing their lips together, sharp teeth against delicate skin. Will hesitates, for only a moment this time, before he returns the kiss back with doubled force, punch drunk, terrified, and hopelessly besotted.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you came across this on its own, you may be interested in the rest of my [Kink/Goretober 2018 Fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156049/chapters/37749245), which span the gamut of crack to truly and utterly fucked. I posted this separately because it was planned for VampireHannibalFest, but it also loosely fits Day 26's Kinktober prompt for 'Power Bottom'.
> 
> Please say hi and talk at me about writing and hannigram and all the related goodness. I'm on [Tumblr](https://trikemily.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/trikemily) as trikemily.


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